


The unrecorded hours

by tryalittlejoytomorrow



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Future Fic, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-05
Updated: 2016-05-05
Packaged: 2018-06-06 15:23:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6759451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tryalittlejoytomorrow/pseuds/tryalittlejoytomorrow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peace is a strange thing. Clarke is so used to running, to losing the ones she cares about, to pushing her feelings aside for more important things like surviving, that finally having time to breathe and feel and live is nothing short of overwhelming.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The unrecorded hours

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kay_emm_gee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kay_emm_gee/gifts).



> This is an early birthday present for my darling Kayla, who asked for anything canonverse. Hope you enjoy!

Peace is a strange thing. Clarke is so used to running, to losing the ones she cares about, to pushing her feelings aside for more important things like surviving, that finally having time to breathe and feel and _live_ is nothing short of _overwhelming_. It isn't easy; Clarke doesn't really remember what it's like, going day by day, the steady rhythm so unexpected after months of existing on the rush of adrenaline, so she busies herself with everything as to _not_ think about it.

 

Grief comes so unexpectedly and hits her the hardest in the midst of winter; snow falls and Raven wraps a blanket of fur around her shoulders and _Lexa_ 's name in on the tip of her tongue but she can't speak it, can't talk about losing her when her hands are still red with Finn's blood, so Clarke bites her tongue until she tastes her own in her mouth. Raven doesn't talk about Sinclair; everybody's learned not to mention his mother in front of Monty; Octavia still doesn't talk to Bellamy, only glances his way with hurt and regret and so much love _still_ no matter how she tries to deny it, and she carries Lincoln's journal with her at all times as if her life depended on it.

 

Clarke hates herself for wishing she still had her chip, something to hold onto the memory of Lexa. On days when someone mentions Fox, or when Jasper's eyes darken around the campfire, his mind clearly elsewhere, Clarke wonders if she'll ever be able to tell her friends, what it feels like to know that everyone you love, dies.

 

_Bellamy_ does; of course he does. The nights are the worst; under the cover of darkness there's nothing Clarke can do to hide from herself. She calls out in her nightmares and he's there, almost as if Bellamy kept guard in front of her cabin. Maybe he does; maybe he's scared of having to watch her leave again, just as much as Clarke's afraid she'll do eventually. Leaving is easier than living, is all she knows anymore. But Bellamy slips into her bed and pins her body with his, his radiant warmth sinking into her to the bone until the tremors in her soul and her ghosts lay to rest still. His breathing is soothing against the nape of her neck, his arm strong as it wraps around her middle; her fingers seek his and he squeezes back, and there's no words needed. In the morning Bellamy never mentions it; but in war or peace, he's always been there for her. That is who he is.

 

In war or peace, he's always known what she needs.

 

* * *

 

Winter draws out far longer than they'd thought. Clarke spends her days in medical tending to sick people with her mother, and it's a nice change, to remember that her hands can _heal_ , too. Bellamy comes by a lot, half-carrying young trainees, helps by dropping herbs Monty's been teaching him to pick. It screams _Octavia_ , who still won't really look her brother in the eye, but it's a start.

 

It comes to no one's surprise when Bellamy falls ill, two weeks after half of Arkadia has recovered, because he hasn't taken a minute to rest. Clarke knows it; it takes one to know one, after all. Forgiveness is hard for them and he feels like he hasn't done enough to atone for his sins. Will _they_ ever, she wonders as she brushes his burning forehead with a damp towel, pushing his sweaty curls off his face. Bellamy's only half conscious, dozing in and out of it, and her mother's nice enough not to tell her that she doesn't _need_ to sit by his side all day because all he really needs is rest. Clarke's grateful for her, and for Bellamy's soft snores when he finally does fall asleep; it's a sound she's come to associate with the peace she feels when he tucks her under his chin in bed and it's a lot, sometimes it even gets too much, but he's _home_ in a way nothing or no one else really is.

 

Octavia stops by; awkwardly squeezes Clarke's shoulder, and her chin wobbles a bit when her eyes land on her brother's sleepy frame. It's just the flu, Clarke wants to say, but she knows it's _not_. It's Lincoln and it's war and Bellamy wanting to believe he was doing the right thing and Clarke doesn't know what it's like to have a sibling but she knows how hard it is to hate when all you want to do is love. She leaves the Blakes alone, and it's not until she's back in her cabin, Bellamy's book forgotten by her bed like this is _their_ place and not just hers anymore, that Clarke realizes how _lonely_ she feels.

 

They never speak of it; what it means for the two of them that Bellamy's moved from coming to her when the nightmares got too much to just _staying_. The familiarity, the intimacy, the thrill of his weight on top of her when he rolls during the night and makes himself comfortable, how it was almost unbearable in the beginning and now feels perfect. As Clarke faces her first night on her own, confusion sweeps in. Does he feel the same? Is it still about comforting her, or is there something in for him, too? Will she ever stop being in his debt?

 

The bed feels empty; her blanket's too heavy, she feels trapped in it, and she wakes from a nightmare barely a couple of hours later, panicked, choking on air, her legs all tangled until she falls off trying to escape things she can't outrun. She hits her head against the nightstand and there might be blood - it's not like Clarke hasn't seen more. She grabs her boots and jacket, and her feet bring her back to the medbay on autopilot. Her mother's asleep on a cot, and so are three of the four patients in there.

 

Bellamy's awake, and the concern in his eyes at the sight of her is more than she can bear, but tonight Clarke doesn't care if this is too much, if _he_ is too much. She walks up to him and Bellamy lifts the sheets and opens his arms and someday she'll ask him how he does this, how he can be so good at _knowing_ what she wants and what she needs, but for now Clarke is too tired to think. All she wants is to _feel_ ; the hard planes of his body, so solid, so real as his arms wrap around her and she melts, wants to hide in his chest and never leave. "Hey, what's going on?" he whispers, soft, hoarse, his voice still dripping with sleep.

 

_I can't do this without you_ , she thinks, and maybe he gets it even if she'll never let herself say it because he brushes his lips to the crown of her hair without a word, his arms circling around her back, pressing her to him with more strength than his weak state lets on. This is her life now, her heart on her sleeve whenever she's around him, caught in her throat when she's not - with or without Bellamy. The latter is something she knows she can't handle now.

 

She furrows her nose in his neck, breathing him in, a little giddy as she feels his pulse there, so steady. He feels clammy; his skin is hot, still a little feverish, but the fire feels nice, she feels so cold. Bellamy doesn't flinch when she slips her freezing fingers under his shirt, and Clarke sighs when she starts feeling like she can breathe properly again. "Bellamy," she speaks his name, soft, like an experiment. She feels like she never says it unless there's danger ahead or they're shouting at each other, and it rolls nicely on her tongue, like a secret or a promise. She likes it.

 

He doesn't reply immediately, and Clarke almost believes he's dozed off again. But his hand is rubbing her back and his touch sends a stupid thrill through her, it's embarrassing, so she presses a kiss to his jaw and lingers there, makes the most of it. His fingers still at her back and she almost pulls back but the groan that reverberates in his throat makes heat spark at her cheeks. "You'll get sick," he says, and she's pretty sure that's not what he'd wanted to say, but it's nice - knowing they're not so damaged that they can't get flustered.

 

She curls her fingers at his hips, sets one leg between his as she hooks her knee around his waist, pressed from head to toe to him in a way that feels like the beginning of everything. Like hope, too. "The cabin could do with shelves. For your books," is what she says, light, like it's not a big deal, wanting him to stay, wanting him.

 

He smiles in her hair, and maybe it's that simple - _moving on_.

 

* * *

 

It isn't a question of good or bad days. It's just that life is overwhelming and Clarke struggles to be okay with it all the time; it plagues her every day, that pang at her heart because she feels safe and whole _and_ ripped at the seams, too. It's Wells and Fox and Monroe and Lexa and everyone, really - there's not a day without them in it.

 

Spring comes, and her hair is getting too long, it clings to the back of her neck when the heat surprises them. It takes longer than it used to to wash and braid it and Clarke wants to ask Raven to cut it a dozen times, but Bellamy seems to have taken a liking to it, and it's so stupid - it's just hair, for real, but Bellamy _likes_ it and Clarke likes the way he undoes her plait at night and splays her hair, twines his fingers in it, so maybe it's worth it.

 

She feels trapped in her own skin when she surprises herself by liking it too much, though, and it's a spiral down from there on. She avoids him and he notices it, of course he does, and Clarke almost expects him to make a scene, to call her out on it - and maybe she wants him to, so she can tell him how messed-up it is in her head so he can help her fix it. _Together_ , this is how it's supposed to be between the two of them.

 

Bellamy doesn't, however. He lets her go on for a week, taking her silence in during meetings and rounds, and it unnerves her so much she wants to punch something. She punches _him_ in the shoulder one night when he makes it to their cabin. "Stop giving me space!" Clarke almost yells, her fist uncurling at his chest, her fingers clutching the fabric of his shirt. She wants to pull and yank and push him away, and bring him closer at the same time. Sometimes she's irritated by his warm, lumpy presence at night; most of the time she can't get enough of him - her head is a jungle of needs and desires she can't recognize as her own despite how loud they're getting.

 

Bellamy takes it in, her confusion and the fire that burns bright in her eyes, strong and solid as he stands there, accepting her exactly the way she is, and he's never been more tempting than in that instant. It's almost frightening how Clarke isn't frightened at all by the concept: wanting without fearing. "Clarke," he says simply, and it's _everything_.

 

"Don't let me push you away," she pleads, whispers and screams at the same time, shy and loud. Bellamy's forehead creases into a frown, and he looks so confused yet still so understanding as he nods a little, hesitant, but willing to do anything, Clarke feels her heart break in the best way. It feels good, it feels real. She splays her fingers on his chest, loves how firm it feels, can't wait to feel _more_ of it. That's something she wants to be able to admit out loud. "I don't know why I'm scared," she confesses.

 

His hand finds his way atop hers, and it's a perfect fit. "It's okay," he replies, soft.

 

"I got scared. I hate it," she goes on, can't stop now. "I don't want to run but that's all I ever seem to do. Don't let me."

 

"I won't," he promises, like it's so easy.

 

"I don't know how to deal with this," Clarke says. She doesn't offer any other explanation because she doesn't really have one, can't find the words to express how scared she can be of how much she feels about him while being so relaxed, so at peace with her feelings at other times. It's just exhausting, loving him; it's wonderful and easy and anything _but_. Just looking him in the eye makes her heart swell, painful and so alive. "But I'm willing to - I don't know, figure it out. _With_ you."

 

His frown relaxes, the lines disappearing off his forehead, and Clarke feels a little giddy, allowing herself to revel in just how _handsome_ he is when his lips twitch into a smile. She's so scared of ruining this with the darkness that clouds her mind but even being scared feels better when it's with him. They're stronger together, she's always known it; Bellamy has this strength, this warmth, so different from her but that complements her, too, makes her - _them_ \- better.

  
Bellamy lifts his hand to her face, slow, gentle, and tucks a stray curl behind her ear, his fingers resting at her jaw. Soft, barely there, and still Clarke feels like her skin is on fire. She wants to tell him how it feels just as much as she wants to kiss him, desires she felt like she didn't deserve to feel again bubbling at the surface, hot and bright and _urgent_ while Bellamy strokes her cheek like he could do this forever, and maybe that's another way they complement each other, too - he's there to calm her when she wants to dive in deep, to help her slow down before the big rush.

  
She never thought he'd be _that_ for her. She's _so_ happy he is. If he doesn't kiss her soon she'll explode.

  
" _Together_ ," he murmurs right before his lips touch hers, and it's _not_ an explosion, it's so much better. Instead, there's quiet, peace, as the voices in her head fade to the background. Bellamy twines his hand in her hair and tilts her head to the side a little, changing the angle as he kisses her deeper, and that's _it_ , if she's ever going to run again that's where she'll run to.

 

* * *

 

He wants to take things slow, and Clarke wants to fight him on it but isn't that exactly what she asked him to do? She wants the rush, the adrenaline, before life takes him away, because she's _still_ scared that's what will happen - and Bellamy fights her on it by being there every day, good _and_ bad, kissing her awake and goodnight, arguing with her during meetings like they always do because this _is_ everything but it _doesn't_ change anything. They're still Clarke and Bellamy, Bellamy and Clarke; always and foremost.

  
She opens up to Raven. About Finn, Lexa, Sinclair, everything. _Bellamy_. They cry and laugh together and it feels good, remembering that heartbreak hurts but that it's better than feeling nothing at all. To celebrate love instead of dreading it. "I hoped things would work for the two of you," Raven tells her and tears well up at Clarke's eyes again because Raven's friendship means the world to her, and knowing that she wants her to be happy after all the pain she's caused her is both humbling and magnificent.

  
Sometime later Octavia joins them, and her eyes aren't as hard as they used to be. She's softer around her edges, more like the girl who fought her brother for his entitlement than the sister who swore him off of her life. They end up seeking Harper, and that's how Bellamy finds them hours later after his round is done and he finds his bed empty of Clarke, the four girls cuddled up in Raven's cabin, sharing blankets and secret smiles.

  
"Girls night, huh?" he chuckles, and Raven sticks her tongue out at him. Octavia rolls her eyes, fond.

  
Clarke feels like her heart is going to burst out with how much she loves him. She gets up from their blanket fort to kiss him and Harper cheers, and it's silly, but this is the first time in a long while she's truly felt like she's _eighteen_ and not a hundred years old.

  
It feels so impossibly good.

 

* * *

 

Peace doesn't mean everything is easy, or forgiven. Kane still bears scars that will probably never fully heal; Monty and Jasper still don't know how to be around each other, and the longing in their eyes makes everybody's heart clench in pain. But Clarke's grown to accept that there's a light in her life that never goes out, hope in the darkness, in spite of everything.

  
Bellamy.

  
If they can find peace together, she knows their people will too, someday.

 

* * *

 

"I love you," she breathes against his mouth one morning, and it might not be the first time, or maybe it is, she doesn't even know. She loves him so much, it's so obvious Clarke doesn't even believe she needed to say it for him to know. "I love you," she repeats, never getting tired of it, and it's everything, a confession, her responsibility to tell him, show him, make sure he knows she's his as much as he's hers.  

  
His hands skim underneath her shirt and he's laughing in her mouth and it's _perfect_. His hair is messy from her hands playing with it, tugging at it when his lips venture to her jaw, the spot below her ear, her neck, the warm skin above her breast. She moans when he sucks her nipple into his mouth, shuts her eyes tight at the barest hint of teeth, grasps the sheets and bites at her bottom lip when his fingers slip in her underwear and find her wet and wanting.

  
It's fast and slow, too much and not enough, and Clarke's barely come down from her high that Bellamy takes her there again, she's so glad she's been letting him guide them into this, so glad she's gotten to love him every day in that quiet, comfortable way, before jumping off the cliff with him. "You're so beautiful," he moans in her ear, silly, happy, and this is what love should feel like, Clarke believes. Hot and urgent and soft and quiet, sweet and low, loud and strong, _Bellamy_.

  
She kisses him then, hot and deep, as her hands grip at his hips and she rocks hers into him, seeking that peak again, never wanting to come down. Bellamy rubs a hand between them and she keens, presses herself into his touch, feels herself fluttering under his circling thumb until something snaps inside of her. It's such a dumb thrill, having Bellamy inside her, loving him that much, and Clarke fights to keep her eyes open because she's never let anyone else see into her the way he can, she wants to fully experience it. His hand is in her hair and her name on his tongue, and she loves that about him too, the way he says her name like he means _I love you_ every single time.

  
She tells him, tells him she loves him again, and the way he exhales against her temple as he struggles on his arms to pull out on time makes her laugh, loud and fond and so in love. Clarke takes him in her hand and encourages him, doesn't need to stroke him long before he spills out, groaning in her ear that he loves her _so much_. He's breathing hard and harsh into her skin, heavy as he lies half on top of her, and Clarke slips her own hand between her legs, touching herself to the sounds he's making, hot and obscene. "God, you're so - I love you, I love you," he mumbles and helps out, peppering kisses down her chest, palming at one breast while he rolls her nipple with his tongue, and Clarke's orgasm hits her like a wave, sensations coming from every inch of her body, Bellamy's teeth nipping at the underside of her breast and her own thumb rough on her clit. She grins through it, and starts laughing right after and Bellamy joins her, kissing his way up to her mouth, sweet, soft, slow. "Good morning to you too," he says, smug, and Clarke doesn't even find it in her to roll her eyes.

 

* * *

 

He tells her about Gina on a rainy day, when there's nothing to do except stay in bed and wait for the sun to rise again and pierce the grey clouds. He's not angry; just sad, and Clarke feels for him because this is her fault, everything is, but Bellamy kisses her apology away, says he just needed her to know, wants to know everything about her, too.

  
They talk for hours; the rain stops but they never come out of their cabin, and when he thrusts into her it's slow and quiet, his eyes boring into hers, honest and affirming, and not overwhelming for once.

  
It's a lot but it feels so right.  
  


* * *

 

Summer comes and everything is so shiny, so full of colors, Clarke wants to sit down and paint forever. She doesn't know how to capture the light that glints in her mother's hair when Kane makes her laugh, or create the shade of Bellamy's skin after a day out in the sun, but Clarke wants to try.

  
She never wants to forget how blue the ocean was when Monty and Jasper stood around each other, awkward, shy, before finally hugging.  
  


* * *

 

The ceremony is beautiful. Her mother looks radiant and Clarke knows Kane will do everything to make her happy, and this is their life now. They can be happy without letting themselves get scared of how it could all end; it _could_ , that's true, all good things come to an end eventually, but it doesn't mean they can't enjoy them while they last.

  
Octavia drags them out to dance, and Bellamy pretends to be grumpy about it for half a second before he pulls at her hand and drags her with him. Clarke fits against his chest perfectly, and they start swaying to a rhythm that is much slower than the music but feels just _right_. Everything has, for the past months.

  
It's not easy every day, it never will. Moving on isn't forgetting, moving on doesn't mean they've stopped hurting. Peace is a fragile thing, and Clarke still fears that happiness is a fleeting miracle that'll be snatched away from her the moment she takes it for granted. It's a fear she's learned to live with, though. With Bellamy.

  
"They really look happy," Bellamy says, low, in her ear. "I've never been to a wedding before, but it's pretty nice."

  
She hums absently into his chest, thinking of flower crowns and rows of pearls, how she'd ask Octavia to sew them on the front of her dress, if she ever was to get married. Clarke feels her cheeks heat up at the thought - she's not even nineteen, and things are still so new, so good but so recent, it's silly to think like this. Or is it?

  
"Yeah," she agrees, and presses on her tiptoes to kiss him. He's just as good as her husband already, _really_ , together and indivisible, her true north. Clarke doesn't need a ring or a dress or a ceremony to feel it, _know_ it.

  
But it might be nice, someday.

 

* * *

 

 

_the end_

 


End file.
